


Part XII:  A Good Year

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [62]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Babies, Comfort, Communicate better here people!, Drinking & Talking, F/M, Friendship/Love, Hisana Lives, Kissing, Love, Love Confessions, Married Couple, Pining, Reunions, Revenge, Romance, So Married, Talking around the problems, Teasing, Twins, all the problems, gratitude
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:34:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25942192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: The Kuchiki family reunites after the conflict with Aizen et al.  Rukia and Renji discuss what happens next.  Hisana thanks Renji for looking after Rukia.
Relationships: Abarai Renji & Kuchiki Rukia, Kuchiki Byakuya/Kuchiki Hisana
Series: A Thin Red Line [62]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/93946
Comments: 5
Kudos: 17





	Part XII:  A Good Year

**Part XII: A Good Year**

First day of spring—

I keep thinking about

the end of autumn.

\-- Matsuo Basho

* * *

**_Almost Two Months Later…._ **

* * *

**The Rubble**

There is beauty in the mess. And, right then, mess stretches for _yards and yards._ House Kuchiki is _teeming_ with messiness, and Hisana couldn’t be _happier_. 

The nervous jangle of energy that she fostered when searching for her sister all those years ago has never left her. It knocks around her bones and yanks at her heartstrings. She’ll never be a quiet soul, she thinks. Age hasn’t changed this. Neither has marriage, reunion, or motherhood.

Hisana knows that she will always _want more_ , that she will always _dream of greater things_ , and that she will never be satisfied. This is a fate to which she has resigned herself. When finding Rukia did not quell the shaking desire of _more_ … of _doing_ … she knew it wasn’t only grief or guilt that drove her to her feet every morning.

Tonight is no different.

Aizen’s invasion is in full swing. Or so she thinks. Hisana has no way of knowing for sure. The Powers That Be have trapped Aizen and a number of his minions in an ersatz town made in the image of one from the World of the Living. She doesn’t know which one, but she assumes it’s the one that Rukia visited, the one where her sister met the Shiba boy.

All Hisana knows for sure about the ensuing conflict is that Aizen sent Seireitei a love letter in the form of an invasion of his experiments. Likely, _rejects_. But, even the _rejects_ can do a lot of damage when the ones primarily in charge of guarding the city have been sent to handle the worst of the lot.

With the Coordinated Relief Station overwhelmed, Kuchiki manor swung open its doors to help with Squad Four’s overflow. Overflow, here, consists mostly of traumas that are survivable.

But, being a restless soul, Hisana is not content with the passive handing over of her home. She pitches in, donning a pink apron, and learning the best ways to patch wounds and wrap bandages. 

Harunobu Ogidō, the Eighth Seat of Squad Four, directs much of the effort at the manor, and Hisana is happy to oblige his orders and instructions. Indeed, she rather relishes the flood of need that runs through the manor. It keeps her mind occupied, away from the pointed worries that cut her when her hands aren’t busy.

“Patient is stable,” says Hisana, pushing through a privacy curtain. Her hands find the slack of her apron and twist in the material.

The corridors in this wing of the manor are stuffed full of beds and medical equipment. It is the first time that Hisana can remember ever thinking the manor felt cramped, small.

Ogidō nods his head approvingly. “Good job, Lady Kuchiki!” 

He’s too easy of spirit, and she forces a smile, one that she doesn’t feel. 

Praise isn’t necessary. Especially since she nurtures no _delusions_ that she’s a particularly skillful healer. Right then, Hisana is an able warm body at a time when able warm bodies are in short supply.

“Thank you, Mr. Ogidō,” she says all the same and gives a nod of her head before pivoting on her heel to face the next miniature crisis that sounds in the room to her right, a shrill ringing of monitors. Someone has probably jostled a patch or finger pulse, sending the machine into a conniption.

But, when Hisana turns and raises her gaze, she stops dead at what she sees next. 

Her breath chases out of her lungs. Her heart squeezes hard and then refuses another beat. The sounds of screaming monitors, barked orders, and an assortment of patients’ groans and moans go completely silent. 

It takes a minute for her brain to catch up, but she sees him. 

_Is this real?_ she wonders.

It feels like a dream. Hisana has had a lot of vivid dreams lately. Nightmares mostly, macabre and gory.

This wouldn’t be a nightmare, though.

Hisana rubs the heel of her hand into her eyes. The hour is late. She’s exhausted. Perhaps this is only a fanciful delusion? A hallucination, even. While she hasn’t experienced such a thing before, she figures that now is as good a time as any for psychosis to claim her mind.

Mad people must’ve been sane once, too.

“Mr. Ogidō—” she says, voice thin and wary.

Hisana doesn’t get the chance to finish her question before the Eighth Seat interrupts her with a yelping, “Captain Kuchiki!” Catching himself, Ogidō bows politely. “Thank you so much for allowing us to use the manor!” 

So maybe Hisana isn’t going crazy. Or… at least … she’s not as crazy as she initially feared. 

Letting the fabric of her apron slip from between her fingers, the sensation of elation comes first, but it roots her in place, her heart racing. Breaths come quick and sharp, drying out her throat until an unswallowable lump blocks it.

Her husband looks… _terrible_ …. 

A ghostly pallor has replaced his color. He has a black eye, a large gash that shines with surgical glue marks his right brow, and both his Kenseikan and captain’s haori are missing. 

_Could be worse_ , she thinks, crossing the floor to him. _A lot worse_.

Hisana tilts her head back, gaze lifting to meet his. Her heart contracts with the force of a squeezed fist the moment she reaches out. Part of her fears he won’t be there, that he’ll scatter into a thousand beautiful cherry blossoms.

Her hand cups his cheek. His skin is waxen but warm. And, he is solid, not imaginary. 

“Lord Byakuya,” she says on a long breath when he doesn’t dissolve into the ether.

“You turned our home into a relief station?” he intones in a deadpan that sounds a hair too forced to be sincere censure. A sly half-grin, however, exposes his chiding for what it really is: A feign.

“Seems that way,” she says and closes the distance between them. Her arms snake around his torso.

Acts of affection are considered _gauche_ among the nobility. This thought needles her because, even though they are technically in their own home, their home isn’t just theirs at the moment. It is a public space, full of unfamiliar souls. So, when she feels her husband shift uncomfortably against her, she considers pulling away.

That is… until she feels the weight of his arms fall around her. He draws her closer, but his hold is tentative. Muscles knot and shift as if smarting against her. 

Which can only mean…. 

“You’re injured,” concludes Hisana, studying him intently. 

He doesn’t say a word, but wordlessness in her experience is almost as good as consent, at least where her husband and sister are concerned. 

“Come,” she says, taking him by the hand and leading him to a partitioned room. One with a _door_ in lieu of a privacy curtain.

Sliding the door shut behind her husband, Hisana eyes the little cot that the Fourth has set in the middle of the room. “Disrobe, Captain,” she says and takes a few steps in the direction of the crash cart near the door.

Surprise spreads across her husband’s face at her directness, but he doesn’t question her. Aloud, at least. The lift in his brow says more than enough. 

Instead, he drifts to the bed, where he sits on the edge, and he begins loosening his shihakusho. 

Hisana smirks to herself as she rifles through the drawers for supplies. She suspects few ever address her husband so casually. Especially low-ranking relief station workers. 

“Is this how you speak to the other Shinigami?” asks Byakuya as he shrugs his shoulders free from his shitagi and kosode. 

Hisana wipes the crooked grin from her face when she turns to him. She sets fresh water, an antiseptic wash, bandages, and a suture kit on the metal tray near the bed. Snapping on a pair of gloves, she replies in a teasing tone, “I can’t see through their robes, milord,” and skirts to his side. “Would you prefer me to undress you?”

“Perhaps.”

She gives him a disapproving shake of the head. “Is that a service milord commonly requires of his nurse?”

His eyes glimmer with mischief. “When the nurse is my wife, yes.”

Hisana lets out a quiet “tsk” and bends to check the laceration that stretches from his ribs to his navel. The sutures were hastily sewn into his flesh. They weep and threaten to come undone under even the slightest resistance. No doubt the procedure that led to them had been performed in the heat of battle. 

Carefully, Hisana removes the loose and broken stitches under her husband’s watchful stare. Her hand is steady and her mind fixed as she replaces them. Suturing was the easiest task for her to master under the Fourth’s tutelage, as it is similar enough to sewing, a skill that she has been honing for _decades_.

“I didn’t know you could mend a wound,” says Byakuya, eyes fastened to her fingers as they work the needle and forceps.

“Who would’ve thought all those embroidering classes would come in handy?” She ties off a knot with ease. “Although, Mr. Ogidō says I’m a natural.” A healthy dose of sarcasm laces her words. “The Fourth is _practically begging_ me to join.” 

Byakuya watches her in silence. “You would need to be trained at Academy for that to happen,” he notes, a crooked grin tugging a side of his mouth up.

Finishing the final knot, Hisana nods. “Naturally,” she says, “how many years is that?”

“Six,” he says, the gleam in his eyes betraying his impassive expression.

“ _Six_?” Hisana sighs and tucks her head down. “That seems a very long time.” She opens her hand, palm hovering slightly above the re-sutured wound, fingers splayed. Swirls of green energy surge forth, forcing back the inflammation.

Byakuya studies her, shifting in his seat as her reiatsu penetrates his. “Where did you learn this?” he asks, voice rough like rock salt.

Hisana pulls away to examine her work.

It looks… _okay_ …. 

Her lips slope into a frown. 

She’s a far cry from Captain Unohana or even Seinosuke Yamada, but it’ll do. 

“Mr. Ogidō,” she replies, gaze flitting to her husband.

Byakuya appears intrigued by this development, but not shocked. 

While Hisana is not proficient with… well… _anything_ spiritual-arts related, her husband had taught her a few defensive and offensive spells and how to flash-step many years ago. He had done so as part of the compact they made shortly after he purchased her contract at the brothel, when he realized that she was very much set on finding her sister and there was no way that he could protect her every time she set out into the wilds of Rukongai. 

“Why?” asks Hisana, lifting a brow. “Coming around to the idea? Your wife as an Academy girl? I think I’d look fetching in the red silks,” she teases, cadence set to gatling-gun mode. The words peppering the air are meant as a distraction, she realizes. They are perfectly meaningless, _but_ …. 

It’s the source of the distraction that she finds worrying.

Hisana knows she is talking around her anxiety. Worse, she suspects her husband has found her out, too. A suspicion that is confirmed when his fingers curl around her wrist. With a quick yank, he pulls her close, wedging her between his knees. 

For balance, Hisana rests her hands on the tops of his shoulders. They are smooth and warm and very, very _real_. This is no sweet moonlit dream.

“Everyone is alive,” he says, eyes reflecting the moonbeams trickling inside through the nearby window. His hands, large and firm, cup her hips. 

He studies her for a long, silent moment. 

Hisana sucks in a deep breath and holds it, feeling the burn of her lungs inflating. “You said everyone is alive, but are they well?”

A small half-smile pulls at a corner of his mouth, and he takes one of her hands in his and presses it to his lips. His stare, however, never breaks. He watches her just as tenderly as he kisses her knuckles.

Part of her brain struggles to understand that the conflict has ended, that they have succeeded, that her family is safe and alive. 

As the realization of these things begins to sink in, she leans forward far enough to rest her forehead against his. Her eyelids fall close, and she exhales the breath she held so tightly. “What about Aizen?”

“Captured and contained.”

“It’s really over?” Hisana means for the words to come out as a declaration, but, at the last moment, her heart wavers, turning it into a question.

“Yes,” Byakuya watches her, features softer than his usual seriousness. 

Perhaps it’s the moonlight, Hisana muses. It paints him in such lovely colors, reminding her that velvety blues and star-kissed silvers can hide a myriad of sins. 

And, yet, as he reels her ever closer, Hisana becomes keenly aware of every place their bodies touch. The warmth of him suddenly feels hot. His heat spreads through her, starting with her fingertips before blazing across her arms and back. Her stomach tightens, feeling as taut as a string of a bow pulled into full draw. 

Byakuya dips his head down. His breath ghosts across her neck and he presses a kiss to her clavicle. When he raises his lips to meet hers, however, Hisana pulls back.

“So unethical,” she teases, “I can’t kiss my patients. It’s an imbalance of power.” 

“And this imbalance is any different than usual?”

“Ah, now I know this is only a dream,” she retorts, “My husband is never this effusive.”

“Perhaps that is a failing he should correct.” 

She smiles at him, wreathing her arms around his neck. She is perfectly content right then, basking in the heat of his presence, even though she senses he wants more. 

Hisana feels the flex of hard muscle beneath his bare skin against her hands. With a tug, he brings her closer. The muscles in his arms shift and harden as he holds her tighter. His heartbeat pulses through her, making her whole body syncopate to its speed.

Before she can protest, Byakuya stops her with a kiss. His lips are rough, and his hands, even rougher, slide up the sides of her waist, stopping at the dip beneath her last rib.

Hisana sinks against him, her fingers twining in his hair. She isn’t sure if her legs are going to support her weight for much longer. The comfort of her husband—his touch, his warmth, his presence—is quickly loosening all the tangles of anxiety that have driven her to her feet for these long, long weeks. 

“This is inappropriate,” she whispers into his ear.

“Strictly speaking, we’ve never been appropriate.”

No argument there. And, right now, she thinks to herself, is no time to start.

* * *

So, everything is sort of… _destroyed_. 

A fact that Rukia only vaguely realized when they first returned to Seireitei. But, now, sitting quietly on the scratchy blanket that Renji has lain for them in the middle of what had been the city’s square, the devastation becomes unavoidably _present_ , like an unwanted guest at their picnic. 

Heaps of rubble dot the scenery. Walls that once stood tall, proud, and ivory are now sunken, shaken, and blackened. Divots and pits tear up what remains of the usable roads. The _un-_ usable roads are little more than a collection of rocks and shards of cement and grit. The buildings that weren’t either spared or destroyed entirely stand as frail as dandelions ready to sweep away at the easiest of breezes. 

The small retaining wall next to Rukia and Renji gives a low wheezing groan before collapsing, unprompted, into a mound of stone and metal. Dust billows up from the mound and moves like a fog across a group of Shinigami from the Sixth and Tenth, who are tossing a ball and chatting. The group’s laughter quickly morphs into hacking coughs, and they scatter before reforming just outside the cloud of dirt.

Rukia glances down into her sake cup. Her reflection ripples in the clear liquor, and she takes a sip. The flavor is sharp, but the soupçon of cucumber keeps it from being too pungent, too undrinkable. 

It’s not _that_ bad, she thinks, gaze drifting to her companion. Her very _comfortable_ -looking companion.

Renji lays sprawled out on his back. His long legs stretch the length of the blanket, feet threatening to go over the tattering edge into a patchy brown mound of clover. His hands cup the back of his head, and his elbows wing out with one arm resting more in the dirt than on the blanket. 

“Not bad weather for December,” he observes faintly, turning his head to her.

A pair of large sunglasses, the kind Brother _hates_ , throws sunbeams into her face whenever the clouds part overhead. If that wasn’t annoying enough, even when the clouds spare her from the glints of blinding light, all Rukia can see when she glances down at her friend is her own warped reflection shimmering back at her in the black lenses. 

Renji’s eyes could be open or closed, and he could be looking at anything or anyone. 

Usually, Rukia doesn’t mind, but, right then, it annoys her that she can’t track where his gaze lands. Especially since, at any moment, their lives could be endangered by falling debris or _buildings._

“Agree,” she murmurs, “the weather is nice.” It’s unseasonably warm, actually. Not that Rukia is complaining. 

She reaches over her friend for the bottle of sake that he very inconsiderately keeps at his side instead of placing between them. With a small grunt, she balances most of her weight on one arm, hovers over him, sleeve falling over his chest, and extends her hand. She is so close. _So damn close_. Her fingers shake with tension. She can almost feel the cool smoothness of the ceramic when Renji snatches the bottle from her grasp. 

“Hey—” Rukia protests in a sharp yelp before realizing that her friend is only _handing_ her the sake, not stealing it from her. 

Straightening her back, her shoulders slope down when she glances into his face. He is chiding her with a _You-Could’ve-Asked_ expression.

Yes, she _knows_ that she _could’ve asked_ , but she is perfectly capable of fumbling over the big oaf to get it for herself. 

With a huff, Rukia pours a cup of sake for her and refills his cup before setting the bottle _between_ them on the blanket. 

Taking a sip, her eyes trace the interlocking pattern sewn into the blanket. The design is oddly familiar, reminding her of Renji’s tattoos. Idly, her fingers run along the outline of the interlocking shape next to her knee, her brain gnawing for the memory of where she’s seen this symbol before.

“Is this our old Inuzuri blanket?” Rukia almost feels _stupid_ for asking. All of their Rukon wares had either been abandoned or destroyed over the last 50-ish years, right?

Renji’s brows climb at the question. “Yeah. Why? Thread-count not high enough for you?” 

Rukia cracks her folded fan hard against the curve of his shoulder, earning her a chuckle from Renji. 

She _wanted_ a wince. 

“That was _my_ blanket,” she says, attempting a scolding but falling more into childish petulance territory.

He grins at her, but, with those _stupid glasses on_ , she can’t tell if its amusement or guilt that spreads across his face. “I don’t remember you buying it.”

“We never _bought_ anything in Inuzuri,” she reminds him. 

That’s not _exactly_ true. They occasionally purchased small items. However, no one in their little band of thieves could afford something as extravagant as a blanket. That was rich people shit. 

“I stole it and gave it to you to sit on _once_ ,” says Renji.

“So, you admit you gave it to me!”

“To use _one time_.”

Rukia narrows her eyes at him. “That’s not how I remember it,” she says, taking another drink of sake. “You gave it to me for my birthday.”

“To sit on while we ate snacks.”

“It was a birthday gift,” she concludes, raising her head and donning her most patrician of expressions, the one she wears in anticipation of winning an argument. 

“You haven’t thought about this blanket a moment since,” he says, rolling his head to rest centered on his palms. 

_True_ , Rukia thinks and takes another sip. There wasn’t a whole lot of picnicking in Inuzuri or even at the Academy before Sister and Brother found her. 

“Things look bad,” says Renji.

Rukia peers down at him. Where the hell is he even looking? _The sky?_ The bad-looking things? “Like… generally or specifically?”

His head tilts in the direction of the wall that only moments before gave way. “The city. I hadn’t realized that Aizen issued siege orders for Seireitei.”

Rukia pans the devastation. With each glance she finds something else that has collapsed, been lain to waste, that now stands in rubble. “Yeah. Could’ve been a lot worse.” She says the words as practiced as a prayer, but it’s hard to imagine _how_ things could’ve been worse. All the buildings toppled? Only ruin in every direction? 

Rukia swallows down her drink, cool and sweet on her tongue, and pours another cup. 

“Sure. I suppose if Orihime had failed to destroy the rest of the orb, Aizen could’ve absorbed what was left of it, too. That probably would’ve been a real mess,” he says, voice oddly contemplative for Renji.

He’s not wrong. Aizen had been enough of a handful as it was. If he had eeked out any more power to fuel him and his monsters then…. 

Rukia shudders, her kimono suddenly going scratchy against her shoulders. 

At least they managed to capture the defectors. The conflict is over. Danger has been vanquished. For now, at least. These thoughts comfort her in their repetition, like lazy waves pulling at the shoreline. 

“I wonder how Ichigo and the others are doing,” she murmurs into her cup, eager for her thoughts to drift to easier subjects.

Renji cocks his head toward her. “Probably fine. It’s been… What? A week since they left? Kids were healthy as horses.”

Rukia nods and takes a pensive sip of sake. Guilt coils her innards and creeps up from her stomach until it feels a whole lot like heartburn. 

No matter how hard she tries to reason with herself, she can’t escape the guilt that comes with knowing that if she hadn’t royally fucked up in Karakura Town, none of this would’ve happened. Ichigo would be a regular-ish boy with no Shinigami powers. Orihime would’ve never been conscripted into willing away some stupid-powerful orb only to be abducted. Sado and Ishida would’ve been none the wiser to the goings-on in Soul Society. 

Aizen, Ichimaru, and Tōsen’s treachery still would’ve happened. Rukia couldn’t have prevented that. It’s just…. Maybe their scheme would’ve taken another form. Involved other people. Left her out of it. Spared her conscience.

 _Right_?

She frowns miserably into her cup. For some reason, she can’t shake the feeling that Aizen knew about Ichigo all along. That kid was never destined to lead a normal life. 

“Isn’t that the guy that your family considered marrying you off to?” asks Renji, voice sounding too bright and _abrupt_ for her current mood.

Rukia chokes on her sake. “What did you just say?”

Renji jerks his chin vaguely to the right. “That lord who asked about marriage.”

Snapping her head to the right, it doesn’t take long for Rukia to find Brother and Sister. Both of them are handsomely dressed. Brother wears a kimono the color of winter frost, and, in a rare display, foregoes both his Kenseikan and the Ginpaku Kazahana no Uzuginu. Sister is wrapped in deep lavender silks with her hair clasped back in a low ponytail. Brother and Sister each carry one of the twins, who compete for their attention with Lord Konoe.

_Lord Konoe._

Rukia had long repressed the memory of his unwanted _proposal_ of marriage. She had also forgotten _telling Renji_ about it. It was so long ago. 

“Brother and Sister didn’t consider _marrying me off, Renji_ ,” she says pointedly. Sister had murdered the inquiry with extreme prejudice at the time.

Even so… her siblings could change their minds. They also could entertain another old lord’s inquiry…. It’s not like there’s anything Rukia could do if Sister and Brother arranged a marriage for her.

The swirl of agitated thoughts cutting up Rukia’s mind, however, stills when she notices how Sister’s fingers toy with the hem of Brother’s sleeve. “Sister really hates him,” Rukia says, voice taking on an unexpected edge. 

“You say that like they’re in the middle of an argument,” replies Renji, who rolls his head to the side to examine the situation more closely. 

“They might as well be. Sister’s unhappy.” 

“How can you tell?” Renji asks.

Rukia isn’t surprised that Renji doesn’t see it. Few could. Brother and Sister look every inch the proper doting noble parents with the heirs swaddled close to them. Sister even smiles politely as she speaks to the lord. 

Which… means absolutely _nothing_. 

Sister could smile as she twists the knife into your gut. Metaphorically, of course, because Sister doesn’t wield weapons. Not traditional weapons.

There is a coldness to Sister that Renji always seems to miss entirely, but one that, at times, is all Rukia can see. Maybe Rukia sees it because, like Sister, the same coldness blows through her. Girls like them were reared in tumult, fed more readily on fear than food, and swathed in violence, not love. They have ice in their souls, the shards of which summer’s heat will never fully melt, no matter how much they may wish it. 

Sister is better at hiding her frost. Rukia is reminded of this fact when she turns to Renji, who looks as if he’s trying to solve a difficult riddle. He doesn’t notice the way Sister’s fingers brush against Brother’s silken hem. 

Even if he did, he wouldn’t know what it meant.

Rukia knows exactly what it means. It means Sister is overwhelmed and trying to repress a whole lot of something.

Rukia knows this because _she_ fiddles with things when she’s overwhelmed. Usually, she fiddles by rolling her fingers over the scar on her palm, an urge that tends to happen whenever she has a thought that can’t be expressed due to content, timing, or rank. 

Brother, as always, is inscrutable. Unlike her and Sister, there is iron in his soul. It is quick to anger, biting, and formidable. He does his best to temper it, but, even tempered, iron cuts. 

Lord Konoe reaches to pet the head of the heir swaddled against Sister’s chest. Brother’s shoulders square, his features harden, and his eyes narrow. The flash of his disdain, however, is instinctively perceived by the lord, who grins at them both before nodding his goodbye. 

“See,” says Rukia. “Sister’s hand.”

“It’s wrapped around the baby,” Renji replies drily.

“The _other_ hand.” 

“Oh,” Renji murmurs. “She’s flirting with her husband?” he mumbles, almost defensively.

Rukia scowls at him. “ _What_?” Did they even attend the same Academy together? Sure, she didn’t _graduate_ , but there were classes on reading body language there. Interesting classes! _She assumes._

Renji shrugs. “You know. Nobles don’t show affection outwardly. I figured—” his voice fades before rallying for the conclusion, an earnest, “Nobles are weird.”

Rukia opens her mouth to protest, but her lips press closed when Captain Ukitake threads his way toward her siblings, almost as if summoned by the bad air that strangled in Lord Konoe’s presence.

“See,” Renji says with a snort, “Captain Kuchiki’s hand.”

Indeed, Brother’s fingers catch in Sister’s lavender sleeve, but that’s _different_. Brother’s touch is an expression of affection. It’s a distinction, one that Rukia can’t quite put into words for Renji. 

Nobles _are_ weird. He isn’t wrong about that. There is no hand-holding, no walking arm-in-arm, no hugging, and definitely no kissing. Love is expressed in the details. It’s a stray glance there, a bump of the arm here, an unprompted smile.

“Well?” asks Renji, adjusting his head in a way that the sunbeams skipping off his glasses wink at her. “Is your brother angry, too?”

“No,” she says. “That’s just… romance.” The last word feels foreign against her tongue, like it doesn’t belong in her mouth.

Rukia isn’t a romantic. 

Neither is Renji, she thinks, gaze shifting to him.

“Sleeve tugging is romance, eh?” he says, voice bled of all color, of all humor.

Rukia imagines that he’s teasing her, but, on reflection, Renji looks perfectly earnest in his assessment, as if he is studying a new lifeform, eager to learn its customs.

She shrugs. “What are you expecting? Some grand gesture? They’ve been married over fifty years.”

“Hand-holding doesn’t seem that vulgar,” says Renji.

Rukia’s attention slips to Captain Ukitake, who is bouncing one the heirs to the child’s delight. If anyone else ever _dared_ to jostle one of the boys like that, Brother and Sister would have a fit. A staid, dignified fit, but a fit nonetheless _._ Captain Ukitake, however, earns Sister’s warmth. It’s the kind of warmth that puts a fire in Sister’s eyes and brightens her entire face. Sister has stopped toying with Brother’s sleeve. Instead, she gently presses her arm against his. The gesture is fleeting, but it catches Brother’s attention, and he regards her with a fond glance.

“I think they’ve got it figured out,” Rukia concludes. 

“Hardly could tell they’re together except for the kids,” says Renji. 

Rukia disagrees. Whole-heartedly. “Don’t be so dense, Renji,” she chides him, “their attachment is clear.”

“If you say so.”

“They don’t need to be effusive. It’s _inelegant_.”

Renji chuckles at her. “So, any of the normal stuff is _inelegant?_ ” A current of disbelief breaks in his tenor. “Is that it?”

Rukia’s brows furrow. No. But, _maybe_? She doesn’t really know. It’s not like she has any experience with coupledom. Sure, she’s had her infatuations. The objects of which were always miles out of reach. She found safety hiding in the space between the heart and impossibility, though.

“I mean, it’s _crude_ to show affection openly. It makes other people _uncomfortable_ ,” she murmurs to herself only when it’s clear that Renji isn’t going to let this topic go.

“Hand-holding, though?” he scoffs. “Seems benign.” 

“You say that because you’ve been to the World of the Living,” she says. “Sister hasn’t, and Brother finds all things from the World of the Living _boorish_.”

“You’re neither your Sister nor your Brother,” Renji reminds her.

Rukia shrugs this comment away, shoulders shifting uncomfortably under the heat of his stare. “I’m noble-ish.”

“So, sleeve tugging it is, then?”

“Maybe?” Rukia doesn’t know if that’s common, but, since her family does it, maybe it isn’t _forbidden_. Not that Brother and Sister are a _model_ couple, all things considered. “It’s not like anyone else does _more._ ”

Renji’s brows pop up almost on reflex. “Have you _ever seen_ Rangiku during the drinking parties at the Tenth?” 

Rukia can’t say that she has. Although, Vice Captain Matsumoto isn’t exactly _shy_ about detailing her exploits once she’s a couple of cups deep. 

“That’s different,” Rukia counters, not quite sure _how_ or _why_. At the very least, the Vice Captain of the Tenth isn’t a Kuchiki.

Renji doesn’t question it. He goes silent.

“Why do you care anyway?” Rukia launches the question with the force of an attack spell. “Have a hot date and need advice?” If that’s the case, he’s barking up the wrong tree. All she’s got is what she sees of Brother and Sister, which is nice and all, but probably not Renji’s style.

“What if I do?” he asks, voice edging on defensive. 

Now, he has his back up. Predictable. Not that it will stop her from mocking him for it. “Sure, you do,” Rukia sing-songs.

Renji flings himself up into an easy seated position. His long legs cross in front of him, and his shoulders slump down. One hand palms the back of his neck, while the other turns the ceramic sake cup at his knee. 

He’s chewing on words—she knows the look—and, when he finds them, his back straightens by an inch. “I’ll have you know that my stock has risen considerably since the conflict with Aizen.”

She nods her head, disbelieving. “Yep. Sure, it has.”

His brows bunch together. “There’s that girl in your squad who likes me.”

Rukia stares at him, flabbergasted. “What?” Frantically, her brain catalogs the Shinigami under her charge. No one springs to mind. No one except…. 

“Are you talking about _Rikichi_?” she asks, nose scrunching up as she inventories the Sixth’s members once more. “Rikichi isn’t a girl, Renji. _Although—_ ” 

“I’m not interested in Rikichi,” he counters before she can finish her thought.

“Who is it, then?” To her horror, her voice leaves her lips small and uncertain. 

Renji, however, doesn’t seem to notice her moment of weakness. Instead, he heaves a sigh. “It doesn’t matter.” Defeat undulates in his words, which has the strange effect of putting her on edge.

Renji… smitten? How? What? When did this happen? He hasn’t breathed a word to her about this. 

Rukia gives his knee a loud _thwap_ with her fan when he doesn’t continue. “You don’t offer up that sort of tidbit, Renji, without follow up. Who is it?”

He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter, I said. She doesn’t really notice me. Not like that, anyway.” 

Rukia doesn’t miss the way his voice falls a few octaves or the way he keeps his head pointed in the direction of her siblings and not her when he speaks. 

That sinking feeling grabs her again. The same one that turned her innards to quicksand when he mentioned the reason he was blushing at Sister when they first arrived in Hueco Mundo.

Shoving that feeling aside, she bumps him with her shoulder. “Maybe you should say something, if you like her. It’s not like people around here are particularly open about those sorts of things.” 

A breath sticks in the hollow of Renji’s throat, and he nods. “I guess I’ve been waiting for the right moment.”

“Well, how long have you been waiting?”

“Years,” he answers before she can get all the words out.

“Years!” she cries and smacks him again with her fan. The wood slaps so hard against his bicep that she’s sure she’s left a mark. Serves him right! “You never told me about this.” She tries to force the hurt from her voice, but it’s there, hanging between them, ready to slice them up if either of them dares to think too hard about it.

Part of Rukia wonders from where this crackle of pain emanates. Is it because she might lose him to someone else? She isn’t naïve enough to think that their relationship would continue unchanged if Renji finds a romantic partner. 

It won’t be them against the world, anymore. 

It’ll be he and whoever he likes against the world.

She’ll be pushed to the side. Alone. Sad and alone.

She’ll miss him. 

Terribly. 

As this reality plays in her head, Rukia finds that she’s already missing him, and he’s right there. How stupid. How _embarrassing_! But, it’s a feeling that demands to be felt, even if it makes her feel suddenly transparent.

“What’s with the frown, Princess?” he teases, knocking his arm into hers. 

Rukia shrugs, wishing she could slough off this premature feeling of loss with the same ease that she casts off her silks. “Is it Momo?” she asks, gaze flitting to him. 

Her breath stills as she waits for his answer.

Rukia already guessed Sister, and that went over… _poorly_ …. Sister, at least, is an impossibility for him, a fact that brought Rukia a measure of comfort, even if it drew her irritation. Momo, however, isn’t. She’s sweet, pretty, and Renji has known her for _years_. Also, he wouldn’t be wrong about the whole timing thing. Since Aizen’s rebellion, Momo hasn’t been in the best place emotionally.

Renji’s brows screw up, and the corners of his mouth flicker, as if he’s unsure whether to scowl or grimace at her assessment. “What?” he chokes on his spit, “ _Momo_? She’s like a sister to me.” His expression sours, as if he’s taken a sip of something that’s spoiled.

If it’s not Momo, then who? 

“Don’t tell me you have a thing for Vice Captain Matsumoto.” How pedestrian would that be? Every man seems to fancy her. “Vice Captain Hisagi does enough pining for her as is. She doesn’t need another admirer.”

Renji’s mouth falls open at this, and, for once, Rukia is glad that his sunglasses veil his eyes. She knows he’s judging her perceptiveness right then. 

“ _What?”_ he croaks.

“Oh, don’t act like you don’t notice Hisagi’s swooning over her.” Rukia does her best over-the-top imitation of the way the Ninth’s Vice Captain stares at Matsumoto. She tilts her head just enough to invite the sunlight to bounce in her large eyes, parts her lips, and forces a vacuous stare to her face. “You know, like that,” she says, breaking the vapid expression, “Every time she walks into a vice captain meeting, he looks at her like a dog spotting fresh meat.”

Renji’s brows shoot up. “Is that right?” Irony blades his voice.

“It’s unbecoming,” she announces.

“I’ll let him know you think that.”

“Don’t you dare!”

“It’s not Rangiku—” Renji abruptly stops himself, as if he has something more to say on the topic of Matsumoto, but thinks better of it.

Rukia frowns at this. Rarely does her friend possess enough forethought to edit himself. So, it must be an unflattering thought. Perhaps Renji and Matsumoto did something reckless together during one of the Tenth’s or Eighth’s drinking parties. She wouldn’t be surprised. Matsumoto prides herself on her conquests. 

“Well, are you going to make me go through the entire roster of female Shinigami? That could take a while,” she says, folding her arms against her chest indignantly.

“No, Rukia,” he says, voice caught on an uneasy breath, “I don’t want to go through the entire roster of female Shinigami.”

“And what a lovely roster it is.” Like an unexpected tidal wave, Sister’s voice crashes over them.

“Rukia,” Brother’s voice comes next, “Abarai.”

Both Rukia and Renji startle in unison. Rukia’s back goes ramrod straight, her heart lodges in her throat, and she whips her head in the direction of her siblings’ voices. “Sister,” she murmurs and bows her head. “Brother,” she repeats the gesture.

“Captain Kuchiki, Lady Kuchiki,” says Renji, head low, fingers fumbling with his sunglasses, which are now at his side on the blanket. 

“Rukia, would you escort the children and me to the Sixth?” asks Brother, tone low and cadence even. 

His voice is too low and even to inspire the nervous jangling energy that forces Rukia to her feet and her hands to the sling that Sister wears to keep the heir bundled against her chest. Rukia sets to the task of unfastening the carrier and taking the baby as if Brother has ordered her to battle. 

Sister stares at Rukia, eyes widening, but she doesn’t say a word. She merely slides out of the sling with liquid grace. Sister’s arms and hands help balance the slumbering babe’s weight as Rukia takes over.

The child is none the wiser. Doesn’t even crack an eyelid when Hisana’s softness is replaced with Rukia’s wiry grasp. “Haku,” Rukia realizes, taking in the boy’s sweet features.

The twins are perfectly identical, but Sister always dresses Haku, the older of the two, in a shade of blue. Today, it’s ice blue, and it matches the hue of Brother’s glossy silks. Shiro, who is wrapped snuggly against Brother’s chest, is almost always swaddled in a shade of red. He wears lavender, just like Sister’s kimono.

“May I join you, Vice Captain?” asks Sister, eying Renji.

The color drains from Renji’s face as he considers the request. “Yes, milady,” he says a little too eagerly after a small pause.

Rukia cringes _for_ him. She’s powerless to intervene, but…. Renji’s been alone with Sister before. He can handle it. 

“Renji,” murmurs Rukia weakly and offers him a sympathetic parting glance. It’s all the comfort she can spare him before trailing after Brother.

Renji watches Lady Kuchiki descend into an easy seiza on the spot where Rukia had been seated. The Lady holds her head high, and her gaze falls to the blanket. “Sunglasses,” she observes, eyes latching onto his hand, the one that clutches said sunglasses. 

“Oh yeah,” he chortles awkwardly, all too aware that Captain Kuchiki gives him the coldest of glares whenever he catches him wearing the things.

“Are they from the Silver Dragonfly?” she asks, voice light and airy. 

He nods. “Yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck anxiously. “Rukia convinced Mr. Shirogane to give me a discount.” Not that the discount does _much_ …. They’re still incredibly expensive. 

Lady Kuchiki smiles sweetly and glances over her shoulder. 

Captain Kuchiki and Rukia are quickly fading into the distance. 

“What happened to your hand, milady?” asks Renji, eyes fixing the white bandage that wraps her knuckles.

The Lady follows the line of his gaze and giggles. Her hand squeezes into a small fist, as if she’s testing its strength. “Oh, this?” she responds, her lips thinning at the thought that comes next, “I met Kisuke Urahara.”

Renji blinks. He feels like there’s _more_ to that story. Like… a lot more. “And?” he urges, careful to keep his voice equal parts soft and respectful.

“And, I may have punched him.”

His eyes widen. _What?_ He cannot even imagine such a thing. The Lady? Punching? Someone? On purpose? 

“May have?” he echoes, voice wet and gravely. 

“I punched him,” she confesses on a heavy breath. Her lips twist uncomfortably to the side. “I think I may have broken some bones.”

He chuckles. “Yours or his?”

“Mine,” she murmurs diffidently. “His jaw was surprisingly _hard_.”

“They tend to be,” he says, drawing from ample experience on the subject, “Bet you left a bruise, though.”

“I'd like to think so.”

“I could try to heal it,” he says, knowing full well that if he attempted such a thing that he’d be out of his depth. 

The Lady shakes her head. “My husband already offered to fetch the services of a healer. It’s not that bad.”

Renji gets it. There is a certain comfort in the burn of pain. It reminds you of your own agency, your own ability to choose, even if the choice doesn’t do much, even if the result is ultimately meaningless. Memories left in the flesh are still memories, some of which are worth keeping around.

“Is Captain Kuchiki going to take stock of the damage done to the Sixth?” he digresses and stares in the direction of the squad. 

The Lady shares his gaze. 

The Captain and Rukia have long disappeared out of sight. 

“A clever ruse,” she concludes, “he’s been dying to give the children a tour of the division.”

Oh, yeah. One of the boys will inherit the captainship. Duh. 

“Haku, right? He’s the one who will take over at Squad Six?” Renji represses the urge to _cringe_ at the sound of his voice. The question is a vulgar one, especially since he vaguely remembers Rukia telling him that Lady Kuchiki isn’t particularly partial to the Gotei 13.

The Lady’s mild expression, however, never falters. “Haku is the older of the two, true, but we haven’t decided how the clan and squad duties will be divvied up between the boys.” Her gaze slips to the bottle of sake, which she takes in her hands. 

That can’t be good. His question made her reach for a drink. 

_Good going, Renji._

Holding back her sleeve, the Lady pours him a fresh cup of sake before filling a cup for herself. “Cheers, Vice Captain Abarai,” she says and raises her cup.

He reciprocates, more than happy to gulp down some liquor. If nothing else, it gives him a reprieve from making small talk with the Lady.

“I wanted to take a moment to thank you for everything, Vice Captain,” she says, hands quick to refill their cups. 

“Oh, it’s nothing. Just the job.” He literally has no idea what these sounds are coming from his mouth. He only hopes that they are words and that he orders them in some sort of intelligible order.

Her smile fades, and her forehead creases. If the furrow in the Lady’s brow wasn’t so gentle, Renji might judge her worried, or _upset_. She does stare very pensively into her cup, as if she’s going to say something meaningful.

His heart slows to a stop. Has he done something stupid? Is she going to forbid him from ever seeing her sister? Chastise him for the idiocy that he just sputtered? Did she finally look into his Inuzuri background and deem his character too unsavory for the likes of her family?

A parade of horrors marches through his head. 

“No,” she says, voice low, “I mean for _everything_. Rukia relies on you—” she stops short. Her eyes are on him, bright and burning. 

Renji gulps down his sake. Part of him expects to find censure or worse dancing behind her eyes. Nobles are like that. Cold. Cruel. Caustic. 

He shakes his head. 

Lady Kuchiki has never been any of those things. Not to him. And, not now, either. Gratitude and something else—sadness perhaps?—shine bright in her stare.

“It was nothing,” he murmurs, attention dropping to the faded pattern of the blanket. 

Against the Lady’s fine silks, the fabric of the blanket appears even dingier, even more tattered, in comparison.

 _Inuzuri_.

It’s easy to forget that the Lady hails from his hometown. She seems so… refined… genteel… queenly. Just like Rukia. 

Then, he realizes the extent of the Lady’s gratitude. She’s not thanking him for saving Rukia from execution, or for protecting her against Aizen, or for watching after her in Hueco Mundo. The Lady is thanking him for _everything_ , Inuzuri included. 

Renji’s lips part. He wants to reject the Lady’s kindness, but his mouth shuts just as fast as it opened. If the Lady hadn’t succumbed to the poverty of that city and abandoned Rukia, he wouldn’t be sitting here. He wouldn’t know her. He wouldn’t know Rukia. What would that life even look like?

Would he have ever made it to Seireitei without Rukia? Would he be a Shinigami? A Vice Captain? 

Rukia was such a crucial part of their little ragtag gang of survivors. She had been a constant in a life full of hateful change. She had been a needed kick in the ass. She had been his refuge. She had taught him how deep bonds could go, how securely they could hold, how important they are to maintain. 

In his adulthood, Inuzuri has become less a place and more a series of flashing scenes, like sunlight cutting through shifting branches. The brightest of those scenes all have one thing in common. Rukia. She is the best part of his childhood. Of his adolescence. Of his now.

“Thank you,” he says and bows his head. 

“You love her,” the Lady observes.

He doesn’t say a word. 

The Lady already knows. She knew two months ago, when she stuffed treats in his hands before Rukia and he set off to save their friend. 

Denying it will get him nowhere fast.

She’s from Inuzuri, after all. Worse than that, she is Rukia’s sister. No use in trying to bluff a practiced liar. 

“Yes,” he murmurs, voice so low he barely hears it.

She hears it. A nod of her head gives that much away. “Have you told her?”

Shame bubbles up in his chest. “No.” He drains another cup of sake and sets it down.

The Lady refills it. “How long?”

“Since her adoption.”

Her eyes widen at this confession. “That was—”

“Fifty years ago?” he finishes her question and gives her a sheepish glance. 

“And I thought _my_ courtship was endlessly protracted,” she says, a smile in her voice.

“To the Captain?” 

She lifts a brow. “He is the only husband I ever had.” 

That was fucking daft of him to ask. “How long was the courtship?”

“Ten years.”

Ten years, eh? Well, that’s significantly fewer years than fifty. Who would’ve figured that the Captain moved so quickly….

“Lord Byakuya and Rukia are similar in that they’re both… _well_ … guarded,” she decides on the last word after a long pause. “You’ll have to be the one to shove her.”

Renji nods. So, he's gathered. “How did you,” he struggles for a moment to find the right word, “ _shove_ the Captain?”

“I did everything. Dance. Calligraphy. Learned how to play _shogi_.” She shudders at the last one. “I did everything but say the words. If an arranged marriage hadn’t forced our hand, we’d probably still be unmarried.” 

Renji gapes at this. 

_What?_

“You have the advantage of equal-footing, though,” the Lady says confidently and takes a long sip of sake. “All you have to do is say something.”

“What if she doesn’t reciprocate?” 

Lady Kuchiki grins around the rim of her cup, eyes lit with amusement at his disquiet. “She either will or she won’t, and, if she doesn’t,” the Lady says with a shrug, “you’ve survived worse, no? Rejection is way easier to recover from than, say, a sword to the belly.”

He isn’t as convinced. They have medics for flesh wounds. “Did you know beforehand? With the Captain?”

“I knew,” she sighs, “For _ten years_ , I knew. And, it was ten years too long.”

Renji exhales a sharp breath. “Thank you, Lady Kuchiki.”

“Stop thanking me. I’m doing this for my own good,” she says teasingly. 

He cocks a brow. 

“It’s so I don’t have to watch your sad yearning face every time Rukia turns her head.” She lightly smacks his shoulder with the tip of her fan before taking to her feet. 

With knowing grace, Lady Kuchiki turns just as Rukia and Captain Kuchiki reappear. 

“Haku is..." Rukia begins, a sigh building in her voice, " _n_ _ot incredibly pleased_ by all the construction noises at the Sixth.” Rukia frowns then sets to the task of unstrapping the whimpering babe from her chest.

“Also, it’s way past his mealtime,” chimes the Lady, whose touch quiets the child. 

“I feel the same way, Haku,” Rukia says sympathetically. “It’s dinnertime alright.”

The Lady shoots Renji an over-the-shoulder glance, “Would Vice Captain Abarai like to join us for dinner?” 

Reflexively, Renji’s attention flits to Captain Kuchiki, whose gaze hardens the instant he meets Renji’s stare. It’s a silent, but _forceful “Stay Home”_ order from the Captain. 

Renji is half-tempted to accept the invitation in defiance, but he resists the urge. He suspects that he might need the Captain’s favor at some point. No need to squander it tonight. “Thank you, Lady Kuchiki, but I’ve got other plans.”

“You do?” crows Rukia, giving him a skeptical onceover.

Renji ignores her and continues, “I’ll help carry the stuff back, though.” 

The Lady gives Renji a sly grin before turning to the Captain. “If your plans change, Vice Captain Abarai, you are more than welcome to sup with us.”

Captain Kuchiki’s almost agreeable expression vanishes, and he shoots the Lady a stern glare. This earns the Captain a playful nudge from the Lady.

“Thank you, Lady Kuchiki.” Renji bows his head politely. “Captain Kuchiki,” he says and repeats the gesture.

“What plans do you have?” scoffs Rukia the second her siblings step out of earshot.

Renji shrugs and pulls himself up to his feet. “There are a few parties tonight.” 

It’s not a total lie. Since the end of the conflict with Aizen, the squads have been very festive. It wouldn’t take much effort to find a place with some decent free food. 

Rukia cuts him a disbelieving glance, but she keeps her commentary to herself as she begins packing up the sake and cups in the picnic basket. 

Once the blanket is cleared of items, Renji folds it and takes the basket from Rukia.

The schlep to the manor feels simultaneously longer and shorter than Renji remembers.

“What did you talk about with Sister?” Rukia asks just as the silence between them shifts from uncomfortable to oppressively unbearable.

“The twins,” he says, careful not to answer too quickly.

Rukia goes silent. 

“What about you and the Captain?”

“The twins,” she answers, “and the renovations.”

Renji opens his mouth, hoping the words will come. When they don’t, his lips press together. He tastes the coppery tin of blood when he realizes that he’s chewed a hole in his cheek.

 _Fucking great_ , he thinks and swallows back the metallic tang. 

It’s been fifty years, what’s another day or month or year? It’s not like he’s been sitting on some grand speech or gesture, either. What _can_ he say at this point?

 _Hey, Rukia. I’ve been in love with you since that time I almost lost you forever to your family. Fifty years ago. No pressure._

That sounds… _crazy._

Maybe this is a terrible idea. Maybe Lady Kuchiki is wrong. Maybe rejection isn’t as survivable as a sword to the gut. 

_Maybe…._

Before he can continue to spiral, Rukia’s voice shatters his thoughts. “Thanks, Renji.” They’ve reached the front of the manor. Her fingers curl around the handle of the basket gripped in his hand, and she shifts its weight to her arm. 

For a flickering second, she pauses and stares into his face. There are words there between them. Words in her eyes. Words burning in his head. Words that go unspoken.

“Night, Renji,” she says, holding onto the last syllable of his name a beat longer than usual. She then tucks her chin down and turns, basket swinging from the bend of her elbow.

He watches. Unable to move. Barely able to think. All he can focus on is the simple flutter of the hem of her green sleeve.

Sleeve-tugging it is, he thinks to himself.

It’s the noble way, after all.

And, just like that, he gives a featherlight pull on the fabric.

Trapped between his fingers, the silk is smoother and slicker than he imagined, a sensation to which he clings when the deluge of dread tears through him.

Before he can give another tug, Rukia goes stock-still.

He waits, breath clenched in his chest, head lowered, eyes glued to the ground. The lines of her shadow shift. Her head turns to him. He can feel the prickle of her eyes on him, which has the effect of turning his dread to _horror_.

This was a terrible mistake. How will he ever recover? Will she even want to see him again after this? What has he don—

The last thought flies straight out of his head the moment he feels the silk of the sleeve slip from his fingers only to be replaced with the warmth of her hand as it closes around his.

Her touch is light, almost tentative, but it registers instantly, and he lifts his head, eyes searching her face.

Everything else fades away. 

“Want to finish the rest of the sake?” she asks, haloed in the golden rays of twilight.

Renji squeezes her hand in response, and he draws to her side. “Yeah, I’d like that,” he says, forcing the tremor from his voice. 

Wordlessly, they stare at one another. A pink blush tints Rukia’s cheeks as she lets the weight of her hand sink against his. “C’mon, then,” she says and yanks him after her. 

His eyes linger on their hands clasped together. 

Maybe they aren’t the sleeve-tugging type, after all. 

And, maybe that’s just fine.


End file.
